


And the days will become endless and never, and never turn to night.

by caravaggiosbrushes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canonical Character Death, Francis POV, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Read at Your Own Risk, Suicidal Thoughts, episode 9 is its own warning, hearing loss, this is just...pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25647340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/pseuds/caravaggiosbrushes
Summary: When they were sleeping in their sacks, before this dreadful limbo, James used to greet him with a soft kiss, every time he woke up. It was one of Francis' most precious joys, discovering where that kiss might land that day: on his nose, maybe? Sometimes on his forehead. Often, on the corner of his lips. Once, on his right eyelid (James used to sleep on Francis' right side, so that he could lay on his left side and hide his bad eye against his backpack, because, "it's useless anyway and I don’t like when I can’t see when I wake up.")
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	And the days will become endless and never, and never turn to night.

**Author's Note:**

> they say writing helps you dealing with trauma, so I wrote this. It's very sad and probably not good, and I'm posting it mostly for myself, but i hope someone might like it anyway. Somehow.
> 
> Set in episode 9 (because lmao. Of course it is).

_I believe in you_

_and in our hearts we know the truth_

_And I believe in love_

_and the darker it gets, the more I do._

  
  
  


Francis hasn't slept in days. 

At least he thinks it's been days. It's hard to remember how time works, in a place where it's always night-time and then always daytime. It's even harder to remember how time works when everything you’re able to focus on is someone else and you end up forgetting yourself and everything that doesn't immediately concern _them_ . Their pain becomes your pain, their anguish your anguish. (But you were in so much pain already, so how _can_ this be?)

James, contrary to Francis, has been sleeping most of the time.

Most of the nights.

Most of the days.

Francis wonders if it's daytime, or night-time, now. He can’t be sure, because he hasn't left the tent in… Again, he couldn't tell. He hasn't left the tent in a while, that's as far as his comprehension of the present goes. 

He can't leave the tent. If he leaves the tent, the tent where James sleeps and breathes and weeps and- if he leaves the tent, anything could happen. If Francis stays here, however, as close as possible to James' wretched body, well, he can trick himself into thinking he is in control of the situation. He keeps repeating to himself that if he tightens his grip on James' boney hands and wrists hard enough, he will be able to keep him here. If Francis keeps wiping James' tears, and his blood, and his saliva away -with a rag, with his shirtsleeves, with his fingertips,- then James will not leave him. Because that's the thing: James is here. His body is suffering and it's unrecognisable like this, yes, but he is _here_. He can't just go. He can't.

Francis can't fathom the thought, so he makes it nonsensical in his mind. 

James is here. 

James is here, and he is getting worse by the minute. One moment he was walking -barely, tripping on every rock and dragging his feet on the ground,- the next, he was on his knees, gasping for air. One moment he was talking -not with his old, usual merry chat, no, but he _was_ talking,- the next, he was so tired and in pain that even the simplest "yes" and "no" were enough of a challenge.

In this white Hell, Francis dreades the time. Every minute brings on a new horror. Every second is made of distilled anguish that he is forced to drink and gulp down.

He’s very tired. He would like to sleep. He would like to close his eyes and simply: stop feeling. He wants to feel calm again. He knows very well that he has to endure this, for the sake of his men, but he's starting to doubt that he _wants_ to do it.

After all, how much pain can a body hold inside itself before collapsing, how much suffering can one swallow down before either vomiting it all up again or succumb to it?

He feels like he's constantly being choked. He can never breathe right. He starts to suspect he will never be able to breathe right again.

When James is awake, it's both the best and worst thing. The best: because James looks at him, sees him, makes Francis feel real, at least for a little while. Sometimes he even speaks. Just a few words, here and there, weak as a bird's chirp, but he speaks.

But having James awake and conscious is also the worst thing, because: what if this is the last time- the last time that-

Francis is terrified about not cherishing it enough. He would never forgive himself for it.

When they were sleeping in their sacks, before this dreadful limbo, James used to greet him with a soft kiss, every time he woke up. It was one of Francis' most precious joys, discovering where that kiss might land that day: on his nose, maybe? Sometimes on his forehead. Often, on the corner of his lips. Once, on his right eyelid (James used to sleep on Francis' right side, so that he could lay on his left side and hide his bad eye against his backpack, because, "it's useless anyway and I don’t like when I can’t see when I wake up.")

Now, when James wakes up, he is too weak to do anything but endure the pain. Or try to do that, anyway. Sometimes, if it's a good day -but is it? Will there ever be a good day again?- James smiles weakly at him, sometimes he even whispers "Francis," greeting him with a feeble voice, but still, doing the best he can.

Today, James wakes up, and Francis, having learned to read his every movement, immediately perceives that something is not quite right. He presumes it's more pain, so he doesn't ask, not immediately: let him rest, don't pressure him with even _more_ pain, just not yet, give him some peace. So he opts for gently pushing James' hair away from his face, whispering, "Hi."

And that's it.

James' gaze snaps from his mouth, up to his eyes then back to his mouth again, and Francis barely recognizes the look in his eyes: has never seen this much fear so plainly painted on James’ face. He's about to ask what's wrong, but James swallows hard and says, voice rough: "Francis-" and stops. His eyes widen in horror, a look of confusion twists his graceful features grotesquely: his mouth does a few complicated twists, pushing its corners downwards; his eyes get watery, one fat teardrop already falling down his cheek; his entire body is shaken by a spasm, then another, then _another_ . "Francis," he says again, this time louder, and then " _Francis-_ " even _more_ loud, while he turns his head on the right, then on the left, looking so scared, and Francis, for the life of him, can't understand _what_ 's happening, what's wrong, because everything is wrong and everything is already happening and has been like this for so long, so _what else now?_

He places a hand on James’ shoulder, leaning closer, "What is it, James?" 

His reaction almost breaks Francis: James’ face twists in pure horror, he grasps at Francis whenever he can reach, tightening his grip on his forearms, grasping at his shirt, even hurting him with the force of his spasmodic movements (but it doesn't matter. Nothing about Francis matters, right now).

"Francis...Francis-" he keeps repeating, in a pleading voice, clutching at Francis' shirt, "Fra-ncis-"

"I'm here, it's alright." He whispers, passing his fingers through James’ sweaty hair, trying to calm him down about whatever this is, but James is staring at his mouth with terrified eyes.

"I," he whines, eyes so big that the white part almost shines in the darkness of the tent, "Francis- I." He swallows, shuts his eyes, only to open them immediately again, "can't."

Francis can’t even imagine what he’s going through, he’s well aware. His own pain must be nothing compared to James’ and by God, James has been so brave about this, so incredibly resolute, has done everything so well and Francis has been deeply impressed by his attitude and his acceptance, both as a Captain and a man. So now, James saying he can’t do this crushes over Francis as a horrible surprise. If he’s been able to endure everything until this point, it’s been because James was doing it as well, because he wasn’t alone in this. But if he can’t do it anymore-

Francis pushes that thought away. Swallows hard. Puts a gentle smile on and looks at James, "You can. It's alright-"

" _Francis-_ " James interrupts him mid-speech, brusquely, so different from how he has done it a hundred times in the past, because this is not the showy James Fitzjames, dashing Commander of HMS _Erebus_ , interrupting Francis to tease him ( _“Oh, I wasn’t teasing you, Francis.” “Then what were you doing?” A gentle blush on the bridge of his nose, James lowered his gaze, “Trying to make you notice me. Sometimes hoping I’d have you laugh at one of my jokes.”_ )

"I can't," James cries out, voice high and loud, _too_ high and too loud for how close they are to each other, and then James says: "hear you" and James says: "Can't. Hear you." He clings to Francis’ arms, "I can't hear myself-" his voice gets distorted with terror before he can finish, "Am I- can you hear _me_?"

What?

"What? James, no," Francis fumbles, fear and dread rising as high as the tide in his chest, threatening to suffocate him, "Of course you can hear me. You can-"

James tightens his weak grip on Francis and hurries to say, with a voice that makes _no sense_ , it’s all wrong, because it goes high and then low and high again, not matching his words, and it’s terrifying to hear, "Can't, I can't I don't hear- can't hear _my_ voice- _Francis-_ there's a noise-"

"Shhh, it's alright, alright." His first instinct is to reassure James, because this is what Francis always does, before realizing it’s of no reassurance at all, right now, but quite the contrary. So he shuts his mouth, places both hands on the side of James' hollowed face, and it doesn't matter that his own heart is in his throat and it doesn't matter that he's feeling close to passing out and throwing up and dying _-please_ , can't he just do that? He's so tired of being forced to live- it doesn't matter, because James is in pain and yes, Francis is in great pain as well, but- but James is- James can't hear _his own voice_ anymore and his eyes are full of tears and he's still talking nonsense and making sounds, terrible sounds that seem to come straight out of his throat and his stomach and deeper still and James is breathing so hard, his chest rising-rising-rising-rising- _rising_ in quick succession. Francis has never seen him terrified like this, not when Sir John died, not when he first realized he was sick, not even when his condition got serious.

So Francis stops talking. 

He cradles James face in both hands, wiping away the tears that keep coming, with his thumbs and with his own tears. James is making all these short, wounded, panicked sounds, and Francis can tell he is not breathing right, but he can't tell _him_ because James _wouldn't hear_ his voice. So instead, he starts caressing over his chest, gently, rhythmically, nodding slowly while holding his gaze, only whispering "yes" and "yes" and nothing else, because it would be pointless.

"Francis-" James chirps again, "Why can't I hear? I don't want to" his breath stops, "Forget." 

Francis' heart shrinks painfully in his chest. He shakes his head, trying to smile to reassure him and failing miserably, ending up weeping pitifully.

"My voice," James rasps, too loudly again, his eyes wide like full moons, scrawny hands clutching hard at Francis’ shirtsleeves. His face crumples in pain when he whispers, " _Your_ voice."

Francis would like to say that it's not going to happen, because this will pass, this _must_ pass.

"James," he whispers, before realizing again that it’s a mistake. He gently quiets him with rhythmical _shh_ , _shh_ , _shh_ s because, what else can he do?

He's useless.

He despises himself. He can't wait to leave this tent to rip the skin off his face. 

He should be the one laying in this bed, not James, not this bright, young thing. Francis is older, has already lived and loved and made his many mistakes. It should be him the one unable to hear _his own damn voice_ , not James with his beautifully deep, rich baritone, his enchanting laugh, his tales and his jokes and his lovely promises whispered in the dark, only for Francis to treasure.

But Francis can’t let any of these thoughts leak out of his bleeding heart, so he keeps them all hidden inside himself, because he can't let James know about his own pain, not right now, not when James is desperately pressing his face against Francis' chest, trying to suffocate his sobs and broken whines and weak screams. Francis prays that someone would take _his_ hearing away from him, because the desperate sounds James is choking on are breaking him, it feels like he's being punched and shoved against a wall, over and over.

"Shh." He can only whisper, hugging James as close as possible to his own body, feeling every vibration of his sobs. “It’s alright.” He says, before reminding himself that it’s useless, because James _can’t hear him_.

He strokes his fingers through his long, filthy hair. Some of it comes away in his hand when he moves it back. He stares at it and distantly register that he’s shaking, quite violently.

He kisses the top of James’ head, while James trembles uncontrollably, apparently unable to get a hold on himself, this time.

Francis kisses his filthy hair and holds him close, and thinks about all the things he might have told James, that are now useless. He might have told him how opening his eyes every day is torture, but seeing James’ own eyes looking back at him makes everything less terrible. He might have told him that there is a place, inside of Francis, that he is not sure when it has started to get filled with James’ deep voice, and James’ gentle touch, and James’ amused smiles at his lame jokes, but he is fairly sure it's been less and less of an empty space and more and more of a James space, for a long, _long_ time now. 

He might have told him how scared he constantly is: not of this place. Not of the Tuunbaq. Not of dying from starvation. But to open his eyes one day only to see James' own remaining closed.

He might have told him, but he hasn’t, and now he can’t.

When James has calmed down, just a fraction, Francis helps him laying back down again. James does not let go of his shirtsleeve, still grasped in one hand, and it breaks Francis’ heart. It’s like looking at a frightened child, laying in his too big of a bed, grasping at his mother’s hand: James is staring at him with a similar, terrified look in his hollowed eyes, silently pleading him to stay. He has stopped turning and tossing in the sheets, and is breathing so hard still, surely worn out by what just happened. 

He falls asleep soon after, exhausted. He’s still clinging onto Francis, but his hold has moved from his shirtsleeve to his hand. His face is devastated: dried blood and tears are encrusted all around his eyes and on his cheeks; a veil of sweat covers his body; his lips are chapped, broken and covered in lacerations. 

Francis tries to recall what James looked like at the beginning of the expedition. He remembers him standing proudly in front of _Erebus_ , right next to Sir John, the day they sailed to open sea: draped in his long elegant coat, perfectly styled hair gently moved by the sea-air, every button shining, boots perfectly polished: he cut such a fine figure. Francis had thought he was trying too hard, putting so much effort in his appearance. He had thought James -who still was Fitzjames, at the time,- looked too beautiful to be a sailor, that he must have chosen that path solely for glory and fame. 

Francis didn't know a single thing, back then.

He looks at James now: no uniform, feet bare, a few teeth and locks of hair missing, left behind like scattered _memento moris_.

That time on _Erebus'_ deck feels impossibly far away. It feels fake.

The world has changed since then: back then, night and day used to respect each other and work together. Now, it’s always daytime. Now, James is always sleeping. In a while, he will be sleeping forever.

Nothing makes sense anymore and Francis will never be able to sleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> -Kudos to you if you’ve made it this far. Thank you for reading. ♥
> 
> \- As far as I know, hearing loss is not a symptom of scurvy (nor of lead poisoning), so I took a big poetic (and medical?) licence for this. # my fanfic, my rules.
> 
> \- [retweet](https://twitter.com/downeymore/status/1289564684564103169) / [reblog](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/625255837853712384/and-the-days-will-become-endless-and-never-and)


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